


A Mark of My Design

by NeverwinterThistle



Category: Dishonored (Video Game), Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Crossover, M/M, loudly implied cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 00:47:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/pseuds/NeverwinterThistle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Empress is dead, and her Royal Spymaster is oddly reluctant to allow any investigation into the murder. There is a man at the Academy of Natural Philosophy who might be able to help, if he can just keep his head together for long enough to see through the lies and misdirection.</p>
<p>This is not a murder mystery; we know the killer, in his blood red coat. This is politics, plague, witchcraft, and one man's betrayal at the hands of his most trusted friend.</p>
<p>In Dunwall, there are no happy endings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Mark of My Design

**Author's Note:**

  * For [childofdrought](https://archiveofourown.org/users/childofdrought/gifts).



> Written for [my dearest Strawberry](http://child-of-drought.tumblr.com/) 's birthday. I hope this is what you wanted, and that you'll forgive me for being so late.

_The bells are ringing; he doesn't hear them._

 

Blue stretches endlessly in all directions. Will turns in a slow circle to make sure, as he does every time, and just like all the other times he only succeeds in disorienting himself. Directions are arbitrary in this place, deceitful and capricious in a way that suggests intention. Design. And not his, for once; Will has tried to change the shape of the blue through wishing, meditating, interfering. He's tried sleeping with a compass in his hand, a map of Dunwall under his pillow, a ball of string tied to his wrist. It doesn't work, just like wishing doesn't work, and meditating here makes his ears ring with a distant, disconcerting _hiss_. He only tried that once, and woke vomiting soon after, so he won't be repeating that particular experiment.

 

Will still can't tell if this place is a canvas he projects onto, or a sandpit someone else lets him play in when they get lonely. And they are, they must be; there's a taste to the tasteless air, a single note in the oppressive silence that sings to him of his childhood in a too-large house that was always more dust than people. There is _someone_ here. Hannibal is of the opinion that it's a reflection of his soul, a piece of himself at war with his constricted and conditioned outer being. Will is less sure.

 

What he does know is that this place knows _him_. It changes each time in little ways, tableaux of victims and killers in varying degrees of explicit grotesquery. He wanders past faces and forms, works of art in their own ways, and he can feel their eyes following his every gesture. They begrudge him his freedom _to_ gesture, and he can't really blame them.

 

Sometimes there are things he has not seen before, and these alone terrify him beyond measure because he has seen things he could not possibly know, and found them later at crime scenes. He's gifted, not mad, but for this there is no explanation, except that he is either tainting crime scenes in a way that makes them more... _attractive_ to his mind...or else he is partly culpable, and just hasn't been caught yet.

 

He swears to himself that he'll tell Hannibal about this. During their next appointment, their next spontaneous breakfast together, the next time Will finds himself wandering into Hannibal's office between appointments to discuss the latest killer and leech off his supply of truly excellent coffee. _Soon_.

 

Until then he passes by the oddities; a cameo with a woman's face, a steaming brand, a dead moth in a glass jar. Papers, drawings, some too blurred to read, and some which make no sense.

 

_We had a specific agreement and I planned around it. The Royal Protector wasn’t part of that agreement. You assured me that she and the girl would be alone. So the price of the job just went up. Send the coin to the alternate dead drop or you can be sure we’ll come calling._

Will balls the paper up and tosses it away with undue force. Maybe it'll make sense later, maybe it won't, but either way it's not something he should know about.

 

Something else he can't place; a carved wooden box, and inside he finds...recipes. Complex, far more than anything he'd ever try, and some of the ingredients he hasn't even heard of. Nothing vegetarian, though, and there's an odd lack of information about the kind of meat called for. Mince, loin, bone to make broth, but no other details are provided.

 

He's never seen any of it before, but the handwriting is achingly familiar, and for the life of him he can't-

"Will? Dammit, Will, I need you alert right now; wake up!"

 

He wakes amidst a pile of crime scene reports, lecture notes and unmarked essays; there's a letter stuck to his cheek, another note from Alana that he was reading before dozing off. Concern for his health, the mental trauma she predicts will result from his overexposure to the minds of the mad. Will pushes it aside and tries to focus on the now.

 

"Jack? Something wrong?" And then he hears the bells.

 

Watch Captain Jack Crawford is a great many things; a commander in the field, though he'd prefer the role of father figure; conscience and motivation, a bedrock in shifting sands. He's driven, constant like the tides. He's wearing Will down, but the progression feels natural, _good_ , even. It's good to save lives, though the price may be Will's sanity.

 

He's tense, more worried than Will's ever seen him, and it manifests itself in a heavier tread on the floorboards, and extra straightness to his posture.

 

"Will, are you deaf? How did you sleep through the alarms?" Jack stands directly in front of Will's desk, where he can't be ignored or dismissed. "There's been a murder, we're needed on the scene _yesterday_."

 

"There's always a murder," Will argues, standing slowly. "What makes this one any different?" He left his office window open, and the bells blare loud from nearby Dunwall Tower. You can't quite see it from the Academy of Natural Philosophy, but on a still day like this the noise could wake the dead. Will doesn't remember noticing them before now.

 

"It's the Empress," Jack says, and Will stumbles, grabs the edge of the desk to keep himself upright. "Empress Jessamine Kaldwin is dead, and Lady Emily can't be found. I'm sorry, Will, I know after that last one I said I'd leave you alone for a while, but this..."

 

"No, it's fine, I'm coming." Will grabs his coat off the back of his chair and fumbles it on. His hands are shaking all of a sudden, and he's not sure when they started to do so. "Aren't the Watch on the lookout? I'm not normally in the missing persons business-"

 

"I'm not on this case," Jack says brusquely. "Admiral Havelock is an old friend, we've discussed your achievements on numerous occasions. He wants your input."

 

"You talk about me behind my back a lot?" It takes an inordinate amount of effort to get his arms into each sleeve, and he can feel Jack's impatience radiating across the room.

 

"Not now, Will. She's outdoors, and there'll be Watchmen everywhere, assuming Farley's managed to keep the Overseers out of the way. We need to hurry. Maybe you can shed some light onto Lady Emily's location."

 

"Not the killer's identity?" Coat buttons are difficult sometimes; he just can't seem to focus on them properly, maybe because his mind is so often on other things these days. If Hannibal were here he'd just take over the buttoning with the minimum amount of fuss and embarrassment, and they'd be gone already.

_Focus, Will_.

 

Jack's already halfway to the door when Will finishes, and he doesn't look around to respond. "They've arrested the Royal Protector; Lord Burrows found him standing over her corpse, covered in blood. Still armed, too. Not sure what the stupid bastard thought he was going to achieve, but apparently he won't say where Lady Emily is. Might be he's going to use her to buy his freedom."

 

"So we're looking for an accomplice then?"

 

"Hm."

 

He hears something in the walls, scratching at wood from the inside. Will hesitates, stopping by the exit; soft skittering, and muffled, frightened squeals. Rats? They're everywhere these days, it wouldn't be all that surprising, but he thinks of the dark and the claustrophobia, and wonders if he should help somehow. Find where they got in and leave something edible in encouragement, or perhaps the wall should be knocked in, if animals are getting trapped-

 

"Are you coming or not, Will?" Jack stands in the doorway impatiently. "We have a limited window of opportunity before the crime scene is tampered with, so I'm going to need you to hurry up."

 

"Can't you hear them?" Will gestures helplessly at the solid wood panelling. "I think it's rats, they sound trapped-"

 

"All I can hear is the alarm bells, and they're a lot more worrying than a couple of rats. Do I really need to remind you that _the Empress has been murdered?_ "

 

They sprint through the Academy's corridors; Will alone would run into people left right and centre, but Jack can get a crowd to part for him with a single, pointed glare. Nobody wants to disappoint Jack, much less upset him.

 

It's cool outside and the bells still haven't stopped. Will spots confusion, fear, irritation on every face; he swallows, and tries to stop looking.

 

"I've sent for Doctor Lecter as well," Jack says, striding through the murky puddles that speckle the street. "Given the urgency of the situation, I doubt Farley will object to one more person on the scene; you work better with the Doctor around."

 

"He anchors me," Will says. "It's getting...easier to see, every time I do it. He gives me a point to refer to, in case I forget what's me and what's..." Jack isn't listening. He does this, blanks out signs that Will might not be functioning altogether correctly, though it seems unconscious more than intentional. Will can forgive him that, after Miriam Lass.

 

Hannibal is more critical in his judgements, but he tends towards the overprotective with regards to Will's health.

 

The man himself awaits them at the Tower gates with two others Will doesn't recognise. Granted, he doesn't leave the Academy as often as he could these days; there are things out there he'd rather not empathise with.

 

"Captain Crawford," the slim, black-clad man says. "Admiral Havelock was just telling me about your...prodigy. Is this him?"

 

"Royal Spymaster." Jack bows, and pointedly stands on Will's toe until he does the same. "I've brought our Special Investigator, master Graham; I'm sure you've heard of his work for the Watch, he-"

 

"Yes, yes." Lord Burrows waves a hand dismissively. "I can grant you a few minutes I suppose, though you must understand, the situation is not optimal..."

 

So many cracks in the walls of this man's psyche, and they grow and grow like ivy up a wall; Will can see the shape of something large and terrible behind the thin veil of disdain he presents, weighing on his shoulders like a coat. There is guilt here, and worry, and an obsessiveness to the way he wrings his hands that Will begins to copy unconsciously.

 

"Good day, Will." He comes out of his half-trance in time to smile ruefully at Hannibal. His doctor is impeccably dressed, as ever, and if he minds being dragged across the Wrenhaven River in the middle of the day to keep an eye on Will, he'd never show it. The man is all discretion and good manners; better by far than most of Will's nobly born students, to be sure.

 

"Doctor Lecter, I'm glad you're here." He manages a brief smile, several seconds of eye contact that are less agonising than they would be for anyone else. There's little that Hannibal doesn't know, or has probably guessed, about him in their year or so of acquaintance, and plenty that Will can't even begin to imagine about _Hannibal_ , but somehow it has ceased to matter. It's good, even; Will spends so much time peering through the shutters, slipping in through the cracks and moulding himself around someone's mind like bedsheets in the hot Month of Timber evenings, that it's refreshing to find carefully drawn curtains and a door closed firmly, courteously, in his face.

 

"Will, we're being let in; are you ready?" Jack is twitching with nervous energy and trying to hide it for the sake of what he thinks he should be. Calm, collected. Always in control. Will wants to tell him that it's _fine_ , he already knows the inside of Jack's mind like a favourite glove, but that of course would be discourteous.

 

"This must be done quickly," says the last man; judging by his uniform, he must be Jack's Admiral friend. Guarded, wary, and straight-backed to grant himself whatever extra height he can muster. An impressive figure, and Will immediately shies away from the few glimpses he gets beyond the practiced discipline. He's not here to know, doesn't _want_ to know, and Jack wouldn't thank him if he did. "The Royal Spymaster is reluctant to allow too many strangers near her, however eminently suitable they may be for the situation."

 

"Do you plan to stand at the gate discussing the obvious security measures I have put in place, as opposed to viewing the body itself? I assure you, I would be more than pleased to have the scene sealed off once more." Lord Burrows is jittery, scowling at Admiral Havelock with more annoyance than the situation warrants.

 

"Will? This way." Jack and the Admiral lead on, with Burrows trotting at their heels like a snappish terrier. Hannibal matches Will's pace, glancing around with a neutral expression.

 

"The Watch is out in force today," he observes, and Will lifts his eyes from the cobbles for long enough to verify this.

 

"The Empress is dead, I don't think it's that unusual."

 

"Of course not." Hannibal's tone doesn't change, but he lowers his voice a fraction; Will tilts his head to listen. "But notice their eyes, Will. I realise the idea discomforts you, but now is the time to gather as much information as we have available to us; you never know what may prove to be of vital importance later."

 

"You think they know something? All of them?" Will forces himself to glance at each grim face they pass, and whatever Hannibal's seeing must be subtle indeed, because he feels a lot like running repeatedly head-first into a concrete wall.

 

They've reached the garden, and Hannibal's lips barely move as he speaks. "I think they know who pays them, and who they cannot afford to offend. It's not any of their superiors that they look to for command. Mind you don't see too much, Will." The 'or else' is implied, but now he knows what to look for, Will can't stop seeing. Every eye he catches flicks to Burrows, never mind that as Watchmen they should at least be saluting Captain Crawford, and maybe even the Admiral.

 

Wrong, wrong, everything is wrong. The crime scene itself is no better.

 

They've left her where she lies, sprawled across the cold stone in a puddle of her own blood; her eyes are mercifully closed, though whether it was natural, or kindness on someone else's part, he can't tell. _No murder weapon_ , Will thinks as he kneels by the body of Empress Jessamine Kaldwin. _Though I guess they took that from the Lord Protector when they arrested him_. He closes his eyes.

 

_I approach from the rooftop of the waterlock, my appearance unnoticed in the chaos caused by my companions. The Lord Protector is present, an unexpected deviation in a carefully laid plan, but I have trained my students in the art of improvisation and the threat he poses is neutralised, though not before he fires several potentially incapacitating shots. I remain unperturbed; the lives of my comrades are expendable, and there is little time._

_I seize the child by the arm, only to be shoved back by her mother. Her strength is also unexpected, and just as easily negated; she is, after all, the target. I strike her across the face and seize her neck as she stumbles, driving her back against the nearby stone wall before stabbing her. The wound will be fatal; my blade is poisoned to ensure a swift death, long before any doctors can be called to revive her._

_I leave the dying Empress where she falls and turn away. One of my companions has the child in hand, and the Lord Protector is stunned; by the time he recovers, we will be long gone._

_This is my design._

 

Will comes to shakily, forces himself to stand and step away from the body before he falls across it. He scrubs his hands on his trousers to get rid of the- no, that's wrong, because he wore gloves when he stabbed-

 

Burrows is speaking behind him, and the sly note to his voice puts Will in mind of rats, with beady, clever eyes and twitching noses. Safer to focus on than the man with the blade, and the purpose.

 

"I'm afraid I don't understand the necessity of this, Admiral. The Royal Protector is guilty; no doubt a confession will soon be forthcoming, along with details on where he had Lady Emily hidden." Will imagines Burrows' eyes on his back, unblinking.

 

"No," he begins. "No, that's _wrong_ , it wasn't-" and then a hand clamps down on his shoulder and he stiffens momentarily at the contact.

 

Hannibal's voice is smooth, all  silk and safety; he speaks, and Will relaxes somewhat. "You must excuse Will, his talent often leaves him temporarily disoriented. Are you alright, Will?" He squeezes Will's shoulder a little tighter, too much for comfort. This is a warning, then. Will listens.

 

"I'm fine," he makes himself say. "There was an accomplice present for the murder who then took the Lady Emily away. It was all planned out, and you'll find traces of poison in the Empress' wound; the blade was coated in the stuff, to make sure there was no chance of survival. I'm afraid I can't tell you anything more." Hannibal's grip eases off his shoulder, and Will swallows down an aftertaste of regret. His hands are damp with sweat; he can feel it beading his forehead. Support would be welcome just now but he doesn't know how to ask for it, even from Hannibal, and so he waits.

 

Burrows becomes a distant whine, a wasp-like irritation in the back of his consciousness.

 

"Ah well. It was never a likely thing, Admiral, but you did your best, and I am grateful to you for the attempt. And the same for you, Captain Crawford."

 

Will stares down at the Empress and wishes he'd never been called to this place. His mind is still racing, chasing the trail of this poor woman's killer, and he's so close he could almost reach out and touch the man's coat.

 

"He's going to regret this," Will says quietly. "He hasn't realised it yet, but she was different, and she _will_ be the end of him."

 

"But of course," Burrows snaps impatiently. "She was his Empress, after all."

 

_And her blood spatters the red of my coat, red like her insides as they part to my blade like curtains; red is my colour, the colour of convenience. A uniform. She was a job, this slim woman with accusing eyes, a job like the others, done for the coin and the power and the habit...I do it from habit, there was no joy in this. Red is my colour because red is for blood, masks blood, a practical colour for a practical man, and I am **not** the Lord Protector._

He says nothing. His eyes don't leave the cobblestones as they are escorted away from the scene (but he counts the sets of footsteps, heels tap-tapping like hooves, and knows they are well outnumbered), and it's with a sigh of relief that he finds them left alone once they reach the main road. A crowd is gathering, emboldened by the bells that were silenced...at some point, though Will can't recall noticing. Now he wishes they'd turn themselves back on; in their ringing silence he can hear the mutters of the civilians, and the force of their combined mutinous confusion washes over him like an oncoming tide. Will shuts his eyes, and finds it makes things no easier.

 

"Will." Hannibal waits for Will to open his eyes before continuing. "Having cancelled the rest of my appointments for the day on the assumption that we might be occupied with the Empress for longer, I find myself instead with an empty afternoon. Perhaps you'd indulge me? I just acquired a case of lovely Serkonan figs, I'm eager to hear your thoughts on what I might do with them."

 

"You must be pretty desperate, if you're asking _me_ for ideas." Will smiles despite himself, and it's mostly gratitude. He needs to be away from this growing crowd of people and the turmoil they're broadcasting; it clouds his mind like an incoming storm, and he can feel something dark and oppressive beginning to build where his heart should be. He needs to be gone from here, but Jack would probably disapprove of Will being alone after... _that_. It's just typical that Hannibal already knows what nobody else has noticed yet.

 

Though of course, Jack's distracted; this isn't a normal murder scene, and he has other things to worry about than Will's inability to cope with a mob's mentality.

 

He trails along behind Hannibal, lets the other man make his excuses to Jack and the Admiral (barely noticed; both have their heads bent in serious conversation, and judging from the looks they keep shooting in the Tower's direction, neither failed to notice the Watch's odd behaviour), and follows him down to the docks. It's a quick trip across the Wrenhaven to Hannibal's home; Will doesn't remember much of it. There's a moment where, leaning over the side of the ferry to try and clear his head, he looks into the murky water and sees _faces_. Victims, _his_ victims, except that they're not...

 

"Tea, Will?"

 

He jumps at Hannibal's question, gripping the sides of his armchair. "Thanks." Around him, four walls lined with shelves and a collection of books to rival that of the Academy. A carpet in soothingly bland tones, a desk kept perfectly ordered; by these landmarks Will wades to safety, clings to it and the bone handle of his teacup.

 

"You're going to break that," Hannibal tells him calmly, placing a tray of some kind of jellied tarts on the coffee table by Will's elbow.

 

"Sorry."

 

"Don't be; I have others. I am more concerned with keeping you from scalding yourself." He settles his lanky frame in the armchair opposite Will; it's an elegant movement that Will himself couldn't hope to emulate. "Not to mention with ensuring your continued good health. Tell me, have the Overseers been bothering you again?"

 

Will stares into his tea; there are no faces this time. It's just very good tea. "No, I think Jack might've had words with High Overseer Campbell. I haven't seen them hanging around the Academy for weeks." His lips twitch. "I guess heretics get a free pass if they're useful."

 

"Such is the way of our world."

 

It's not unusual for them to spend long minutes sitting in easy silence; Will is grateful for these moments, where he is not required to maintain an acceptable veneer of respectability for the comfort of his audience. Hannibal seems to understand how difficult it can be. He waits for Will to restart the flow of conversation and follows him along whatever topic he chooses. They have a...balance, of sorts between them, one that Wills finds himself leaning on more and more. If Hannibal minds, he has yet to mention it.

 

"It wasn't the Lord Protector that killed her," Will says at last, and it's no surprise when Hannibal just nods.

 

"Of course not. This has all the markings of a political assassination, a power play, if you will. No doubt Lady Emily will be discovered once there is a need for her, and set to rule with her trusty council at her side. Perhaps she will find herself wed to Lord Burrows; he could solidify his base of power, and ensure he maintained a tight hand on the reins."

 

"You think Lord Burrows is behind this?" Will places his cup on the coffee table and reaches for one of the tarts.

 

"Who else?"

 

"I'm not disagreeing with you." The tart is a glorious creation of apricot, custard and pastry, among other things Will can't quite identify. He shudders to think of how long it must have taken to make these delicacies. Hannibal's patience in his kitchen rivals his patience with Will: if either has limits, they've never made an appearance. "The killer was a professional, an assassin. Jack wouldn't find a shred of evidence leading to him even if Lord Burrows _was_ cooperating; not that it'll stop him from looking. It's a stalemate."

 

Hannibal steeples his fingers and watches Will reach for a second tart with plain satisfaction.

"And how _is_ Jack? I imagine finding himself unable to solve this murder will upset him, when combined with the lack of progress being made in his other recent case."

 

Will swallows a mouthful of apricot and custard. "Dunwall's murderous ghost. You'd think with all the bodies they've left behind, we'd find some sort of clue. No such luck."

 

"And you still believe this ghost is cannibalistic?" Hannibal leans forward, hands clasped in front of him, as he does when he wants Will to know he's being listened to.

 

"Cannibal, artist, creator... The ghost is _driven_ , and if I could just get my head around _how_..." He's back to staring into his half-full teacup, as if all the answers lie within its amber swirls. Swirls, patterns, marks... What is a mark? A symbol? Yes, but more than that, a dedication, an homage. A gift...

 

_I do this out of love. Your flesh for food, for feeding; for myself and my children I hunted out of need, out of love...Sweet, like birds, my little birdies, and they're always so very hungry. Hush now, dears, I'm coming._

_The bones I take for love, for **him** , all for him. Carve his mark and make them sing, sing the songs of the deep ones; so much better like this, so much more useful than before. How dreary, the bones of men, but take them out and carve them up, and oh- how they sing!_

 

"Will? Can you hear me?"

 

A hand on his cheek, smoothing his hair out of the way. Will opens his eyes slowly to find Hannibal kneeling in front of the armchair. _He'll crumple his clothes_ , Will thinks, blinking. _They'll be ruined. Marked_.

"The cannibalism isn't what's important," Will says numbly. He's aware of leaning into the hand on his cheek, but lacks the energy to stop. "It's the bones, she's making carvings with them, turning them into... I don't know, something sacred. She carves some kind of symbol into them so they'll awaken somehow."

 

"She worships the Outsider?" Hannibal's tone is as calm as ever, as if he's not kneeling at Will's feet discussing something that the Overseers could hang them for. He anchors Will with touch, and the unchanging composure he exhibits at every occasion. There are days when Will imagines himself to be a boat, a rowboat perhaps, tossed here and there by currents he can't control, and watching the shore get further away, the whale oil-lit buoys becoming dim and distant as he fades. These are the days he has greatest need of Hannibal, to keep him steady and point him away from hidden rocks.

 

"Yes," Will says. "It's an obsession, she believes the gifts she makes him are a sort of...courtship, I think. She believes herself to be in love with him. It. Whatever the Outsider is."

 

"A line of inquiry that will lead you nowhere, I suspect." Hannibal releases Will and stands. He towers, a lighthouse in the dark, and for a moment Will allows himself to feel a little safer. Protected. For one moment, he is made untouchable, tucked away in Hannibal's shadow.

 

Dreams again. All they do is torment him.

"I don't plan to follow it; Campbell doesn't need another reason to hate me." Will stands too, stretching muscles he hadn't even notice ached. How long has he been here? Hannibal would tell him, if he asked, but Will shies away from worrying the other man too much. Alana does plenty of that already. "There'll be a curfew tonight, most likely. I'd better not stay too late."

 

"There will always be a place for you here, Will. Never feel that you cannot come to me." Hannibal's eyes are sharp, focussed on Will's face with an intensity that says he doesn't believe in his nonchalance. Hannibal sees everything; sometimes that's an uncomfortable thing to know.

 

Hannibal walks him out to the street, where the Watch are just starting to come out in force. It's going to be a long few days, at least until a measure of order is restored and some kind of regent is appointed. Will thinks of little Emily, alone Outsider-knows where, and wonders if she knows that her mother is dead. Would they tell her? Would they let her hope? His heart aches at the thought, to match the building pressure in his head.

 

"Be safe, Will," Hannibal tells him, and Will nods tiredly in response.

 

"I'm fine. But I have to get a message to Jack about the ghost, maybe he can do something with the new information. I don't know. I just...don't know anymore." He turns and starts walking away, down John Clavering Boulevard and in the direction of the docks. With luck there won't be a wait for the ferry, though luck hasn't been kind to Will for a long time.

 

Doctor Hannibal Lecter watches him go, follows the stiffness in his gait with unreadable eyes. Will is in pain; his smell is distressed, discomfited, and underneath it all the same fevered heat burns stronger with every case Jack sends him on.

 

His decline will be interesting indeed; Hannibal intends to savour each second. Will provides a constant source of delicacies, each ripe for the carving, seasoning, arranging. Each a uniquely beautiful experience to the trained palate, and consuming is only ever half the enjoyment. The rest lies in subtlety and grace, the careful removal of each sweet temptation without its host ever once being aware of it. There is an art to Hannibal's deepest passion.

 

And speaking of art.

 

Hannibal returns to his home territory, pausing to nod agreeably to his passing neighbour. The good Doctor Galvani, weighted down with parcels that reek of death and decomposition. A lack of decency that irks each time it occurs, and Hannibal's fingers itch even as he closes the front door behind him. Someday soon, he will have to solve that little problem; it would not do to let Galvani drag the neighbourhood down with him.

 

There is a level to this house that none of his patients are made aware of; even Will cannot begin to suspect, or at least not yet. His initiation will come in time, and when Hannibal decides he is ready. Unless, of course, he digs too deep. And that _would_ be a shame.

 

Hannibal wanders through the rows of hanging meat, arranged by age and cut, like ripening fruits. Dunwall's butchers are acceptable, but there is no comparison to be made with preparing one's own meals, from selection in the hunting grounds to serving at the table. He wastes nothing, and never does his guests the discourtesy of serving them anything that did not once come from man. Will seemed to enjoy the tarts, which more than made up for the difficulty of making his own gelatin.

 

Here too there is beauty to be found, and Hannibal allows himself several moments to savour it, in the smell of curing meat, and the peace of removing a mask.

 

Time for that later, of course. For now there is a cage to locate, tucked away where it will not hinder him as he works; from its inhabitants Hannibal selects a white rat, nearly identical to its brethren. It wriggles at his touch and then calms almost immediately, small red eyes fixed on his own.

 

"I require a favour of you," Hannibal tells it, and the rat's tail twitches. "The Lady Moray has been careless in her harvesting, and the Watch will soon know more than she may like. Tell her to be wary. In her place, I would prepare myself for a hasty departure, in case of unfortunate emergencies." Hannibal considers for a moment, and the rat watches, and waits. He makes his decision. "Be sure to tell her that they know about the bones, and the use she puts them to. There is a man among them who _understands_ ; she should not underestimate him."

 

He puts the rat down and it scurries off immediately, towards one of his myriad secret exits tucked away in shadows and behind crates. Hannibal watches it disappear from sight and smell, before turning to leave his underground haven. There are things to do; a dinner to make, and perhaps a stocktake, in case the no doubt soon-to-be Lord Regent Burrows declares a temporary martial law and confines his citizens to their homes.

 

Jack will be tragically disappointed when he fails to catch his ghostly killer; perhaps the stress will prove too much for his over-strained heart. How many failures can the tower bear before it crumbles to pieces?

 

And Will. He fails exquisitely, like cracks forming in ice sculptures; his fragments catch the light and create rainbows, for whoever knows how to see them. He may well be inconsolable. Hannibal gets to work on this evening's loin, mind as busy as his fingers. He plans to see Will come apart like his mentor, but not irreparably so. When the pieces have fallen, Hannibal plans to walk amongst them, gather them up, and rebuild Will into something new. He'll be beautiful indeed, when the labour is complete. Hannibal pours himself a glass of a particularly fine Serkonan vintage, and salutes his silent guest.

 

"Dunwall is about to become a very interesting place indeed," he observes, and the Outsider smiles.

 

"So it is. Though I wonder, Doctor Lecter; when the game is complete, will you still have a hold on your pieces? Perhaps you yourself are just one more hollow man to be manipulated for my amusement."

 

He may be right; Hannibal doesn't bother asking.

 

Men can only learn so much and live.


End file.
